


A Whole Lot of Something

by Chaifootsteps



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Communication, Discussion of kinks, Doribull critical, Iron Bull critical, M/M, Sexual Harassment, Talk of consensual nonconsent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-20 12:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14260638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaifootsteps/pseuds/Chaifootsteps
Summary: Iron Bull dislikes being told "no." Dorian dislikes having to repeat himself. Iron Bull likes Dorian, persistently and loudly and in front of his partner. Mahanon intervenes, then grapples with the fallout.





	1. Chapter 1

For the most part, Mahanon did his best to ignore it. Dorian was a big, tough boy after all  _(despite his distinctly toddler inspired notions when it came to such things as sharing, pain management, and waking before noon)_  and quite capable of looking after himself. 

And really, it wasn’t as though he and the Bull never talked about anything else. On a good day, the two of them might share idle banter about politics, demons, or dragons – fitting, considering the only time they worked together was when there was a High Dragon to be gutted. On a spectacular day, they had even been known to break out a bottle of something strong and have a laugh or three. It would not have been a stretch to say that they occasionally got along…ish.

But when it was bad, it was  _bad_. And there was no getting around that.

The day it all came to a head found them about four hours out from the gates of Skyhold. Along they ambled in dragon hunting formation – Vivienne near Mahanon’s side, Dorian and Bull to the rear. The mid-morning sun was beating down on all their shoulders, just hot enough to be unpleasant.

It was a cloyingly quiet time of day, and absolutely no one was surprised to hear Dorian’s voice rise up like the heat haze itself.

“You know, if you’re going to _insist_ on running around shirtless all the time--”

“Oh, here we go. Again with the shirts.”

“You get by on a single, solitary piece of armor. I’m simply curious to know what precludes you from cleaning it every now and again.” 

“There are quicker ways to ask me to strip down, you know.”

“ _Kaffas_. Why do I bother speaking to you at all?”

Normally, that would mark the end of the matter. But on this day, for whatever reason, the Iron Bull apparently wasn’t content to let Dorian stalk off with the last word.

“You’re not exactly  _subtle,_ Dorian.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The little insults. The prodding. Is that your grand plan…to push me too far? Get me so riled up, I can’t control myself?”

Mahanon glanced back just in time to watch his lover’s shoulders stiffen. To make out the way his hands tightened around the grip of his staff.

“I would rather swallow poison.” 

“Hoping if you goad me enough, I’ll tie your wrists with a scrap of your own robe and just take what I want from you?”

“ _Bull,”_ Mahanon said suddenly, sharply. “That’s  _enough_.” 

And everything stopped very quickly.

Dorian blinked. Vivienne smirked, delighted to have a front row seat for the only interesting thing to have happened all day. Bull only allowed an inkling of surprise to show through; not so much from what Mahanon had said to him, but the fact that he’d spoken up at all. Perhaps that was the reason why he began to guffaw, long and clear and hearty.

“Oh,  _come on_ , Boss. Ben-Hassrath, remember? You know I wouldn’t say it if he didn’t want to hear it. And I mean really, _really_ want to hear--"

“Turn around,” the Inquisitor said. “Walk back to Skyhold.  _Now_.”

Bull did not.

For a prolonged, jagged second, they simply stared at one another, expressions cool and flat. Mahanon wondered if the Qunari was working out how best to kill him should worst come to worst. 

Then, as quickly as the standoff had come, it was over and done with. Bull shrugged his shoulders, tossed up his hands, and turned on his heel. Off he loped in the direction they’d come, as though the whole thing were no more consequential than a washed out road delaying their travel plans.

They all watched him until he was well out of sight.

Then their eyes turned to Mahanon, who did not falter.

“We’ll send for Cassandra at the next camp. It shouldn’t set us back more than half a day.”

It wasn’t until Vivienne’s back was to them that he fell beside Dorian, speaking in low, frantic tones. “ _Oh Creators_ , tell me I did the right thing just now.” And Dorian knew him well enough to hear what lay unspoken in that question. 

_‘Tell me I did the right thing for **you** just now.’_

“Well, I should hope not. If you’d done the sensible thing, I wouldn’t be half as moved as I currently am.”

He smiled as he said it. Just a half smile, but sincere enough that the breath Mahanon had been holding in left him in a slow, smooth, exquisitely needed exhale.

“All I needed to hear.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Does it do something for you when he speaks to you like that?”

“…If I told you no, but tacked on a ‘but’, would you believe me when I said that I’m really,  _honestly_  not trying to goad him into doing it?”

It was not the answer he’d been dreading, but neither was it the one he’d been hoping for. Not having expected such an honest response – and wanting to give one in return – Mahanon had to pause for a considerably long moment. 

“Yes.”

And Dorian, in turn, took his sweet, sweet time before dipping his toes into a reply. 

“There’s…a broader appeal, you might say.” 

“You have a bit of a thing for Qunari men. I know that much.” 

Dorian shook his head. “It’s not just that. Oh, how do I put this delicately...”

“By all means, put it as delicately or indelicately as you like. That’s why I’m asking.”

“It’s more a matter of...living in Tevinter, you hear... _stories_  of the things Tal-Vashoth do to their prisoners. Whispers of how mages are treated in the shadows, after they’ve been quite broken in. Of course, if you have even the slightest knowledge of Qunari methods and their adoration for protocol, you realize it’s all absolute nonsense, but that’s half the appeal. See what I’m getting at?” And Mahanon was indeed beginning to get the picture. In a rather fetching watercolor palette, as a matter of fact. “It’s just like…you don’t really  _want_  to be ambushed on the road by strapping bandits, but in the comfort of your mind’s eye, it’s quite another matter altogether.”

“So, the prospect of losing control, then?” Mahanon guessed cautiously. There were a thousand reasons to weigh each word right now, and he did. “To be carried off by an attractive enemy? That’s not so unusual, I don’t think.”

“Something like that. I  _don’t_  enjoy the Bull’s ‘attentions.’ That he throws them around so brazenly in front of you even less. But at the same time, the _idea_  of being treated like a cheap cut of meat, with no care or consideration for your needs…” He trailed off, giving the distinct impression that he’d said too much for his own tastes. “ _Kaffas._  It’s all needlessly complicated. Maker only knows what it says about me.”

Mahanon watched as his lover made a predictable grab for the wine glass. Let him take an angry pull or three, which was what it took before he ceased to frown quite so hard.

"The Dalish do it too, you know. You’d be surprised how many fantasies entail being dragged off to Tevinter and forced to service the most beautiful Magister in the place.” Dorian cocked a brow. Mahanon was quick to clarify. “Ironically enough, none of mine!  _I_  was into the idea of being thrown together with some attractive elven man I’d never met and made to…made to...well, it differed, but right there. In front of everyone.” Mythal preserve him, he could feel himself turning bright red. His ears were heating to their very tips. “Everyone feels horrid for admitting it...they  _don’t_  admit it, generally. There’s nothing acceptable about salivating over something that  _happens_ , that shatters the lives of your fellow Dalish. But still, you just...in your mind’s eye, like you said...oh Creators, I suppose it’s hardly the same thing at all, isn’t it?”

But the tension Dorian had worn so visibly was gradually unwinding. Evidently, this whole thing was easier to stomach now that they’d both thrown in a card. “No, no, on the contrary. I can see the appeal. It’s that swiftest little lick of the forbidden.”

“I’ll keep your secret, you keep mine?” Mahanon offered. It didn’t escape him that if things ever soured between them, Creators forbid, this little exchange could hurt him far more than it could ever hurt Dorian. He managed not to dwell on it as his lover gave him a small smile. 

“Your sordid vices are mine, Amatus.”  He reached out to wrap his pinky around Mahanon’s index finger. The temptation to leave it all there, to avoid delving any further was a strong one indeed. But it had taken Mahanon long enough to breach the subject in the first place...if not now, when?

“So...is it just a forbidden fruit type of thing? Or the fact that he treats you so badly?”

“Oh, I don’t know...a bit of both. But I don’t enjoy it enough that I’d miss it, if that’s what you mean.” It was, a little. It would have been grounds for an entirely different talk if Dorian did. “It’s a bit like pissing yourself. Sure, it warms you up well enough, and there’s a giddy little thrill in doing it, but then you’re left standing around in piss sodden trousers and all the tavern is watching --  and there you are, off laughing!”

“Well, when you put it like _that,_ yes!” 

“And shame on you for it. This is a very serious discussion we’re having and that was a very serious piss analogy.”

“Why is this an image you’re capable of painting?!”

“An excellent question, Amatus! I’ll be sure to check into that.”

If past experience had taught either of them anything, it was that substantial, earnest talk was a foregone conclusion once they’d started each other laughing. But Dorian’s arms were familiar around him and Mahanon was no longer concerned that he secretly wanted Bull to bend him in two, and it was such a lovely, lovely afternoon; it was hard not to chalk the whole exchange up as a success. They sat in relative quiet for a time, chuckling helplessly, chewing it all over. Finally, Mahanon cleared his throat, took stock of how much ground they’d just covered…and dared to go just a touch further.

“I’m...aware that I’m the furthest thing from a Qunari, and that I couldn’t really...offer the same experience, so to speak. I don’t know if it’s something you’d be willing to improvise on, but…but...”

“Your willingness to strap me down and call me a whore warms the heart. I’ll consider it strongly.” Mahanon’s ears burned afresh. Another moment’s consideration. “And if you’d ever like to work something out with  _your_  guilty pleasures…”

“Oh dear Mythal, I’d die. I’d crumple and die.“ He’d be sick with his own betrayal, and his callousness toward the misery of his own people, and he’d hate every last fiber of himself. And  _then_  he’d die.  “...But...yes, something _._  Perhaps. Maybe. Down the line.  _Quite_  far down the line.”

“Fortunately, there’s no deadline to be had. Give a shout whenever it suits you.”

Mahanon made a token effort to tell himself it never would. 

But that, he supposed, was a tale for another time.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t touch the subject again for the rest of the afternoon, and come dinner, were content to get lost in Sera’s horrific, spellbinding tale of the Thing She Found in the Orlesian Sewers Once. Josephine had some letters for Mahanon to respond to and Dorian’s archival hunt pulled him back into the library until well past everyone had else had turned in, and when they finally met up to collapse into the sheets, it was with little thought save sleep. But come the middle of the night, just as Mahanon felt the gaps between his thoughts growing longer and darker, Dorian's voice cut softly through the stillness.

“Amatus? Are you still awake?”

“...Mm? Yes?”

“Could I...perhaps tell you something? And then let’s never speak of it again?”

“Of course,” Mahanon replied, suddenly very much awake.

Over the silence of the mountains beyond their window, of the deep darkness and ancient stone, of the fireplace ashes growing cold, he could practically hear Dorian gathering his thoughts.

“I think...if you and I had never gotten together...that I would have given in to the Bull. And that frightens me... _terribly_.”

His arms tightened around the Inquisitor, his gaze fixed on some point past his ear. Mahanon covered his hands with his thinner, paler ones. “You might not have. You never know.”

“I _do._  And I would. I don’t know how or when, but it would be inevitable. I would let him...perhaps even seek him out. And I would lie there afterwards, telling myself that it was the right choice. The best that I could do.”

His tone held no bitterness; just a terrible, terrible resignation. Mahanon said nothing. He rolled over, sensing his own eyeshine as he caught the sliver of moonlight slipping in past the curtains, and folded around Dorian before the sight of it could unnerve him as it always did. His lips found his lover’s bare shoulder, and lingered there.

“Vhenan? Do you know where I would be, if not with you?”

In the light of day, Dorian might have quipped something clever back. Mooning over Solas, most likely. Fighting off eligible dowagers with a sharpened stick.

“Where?”

“I would be sleeping here alone. Alone, and thinking myself an absolute fool for even clinging to the  _hope_  that someone might someday love me. It would be very pathetic. I would be aware of this.” His hand found Dorian’s hair, loose and unpreened, but soft and smooth as rabbit’s undercoat, and carded his fingers through the locks. “But we’re alright now, Vhenan. And it will be alright. You and I, we’re fine. We're fine.” 

Dorian exhaled. A long, low, deep sigh, buckling with the weight of things unsaid.

“...Tell me that last bit again, please? Just...a few more times?”

And Mahanon did, a few more times. And then a few more. Again and again and again.

Until the words settled on Dorian’s eyelids, softened the edges of each breath, and finally, finally took.


End file.
